Bring You to Your Knees
by Azar443
Summary: And whatever you both say now, is gospel.


**Hey, so this is a rather different writing style I'm trying out and darker really. Mentions of sex and language. Arya Tindomiel, hope this was what you were looking forward to. ;D Any constructive criticism is much, _much_appreciated. Enjoy.**

* * *

_~Oh, take me back to the start~ The Scientist, Coldplay_

You stare at the scene unfolding before you (not that you'd ever admit, especially to your cronies, how you follow his every movement and how you've dreaded this very moment), eyes unseeing as you hear his voice, his low familiar voice that in the past has whispered the sacred words _I love you_ countless of times in the night (Guinevere was foolish to think she was the first to elicit that promise from his cherry red lips), proclaiming to the court of Camelot their new Queen. "_By the sacred laws invested in me, I pronounce you, Queen of Camelot."_ Your magic swipes through the vision, and as you render the worthless image of your former maidservant (she's _Queen_ now, remember?) to pieces you couldn't even be bothered to count, tendrils of smoke hold _his_ visage in place, tenderly as you caress his face and you smile when you see him stare up curiously, as if he could feel your fingertips upon his face (and perhaps he can). You can see his reluctance to crown one so unworthy and you will remember her betrayal and you're certain, as you retreat to your chambers, that you will savour _her _version of hurt and betrayal when you reclaim _your_ place as Queen by Arthur's side. Just as you are always meant to be.

* * *

_~Heaven bent to take my hand, nowhere left to turn~ Fallen, Sarah McLachlan_

You see him rise from his perch on the throne, light blue eyes that were once your beacon in the dark now dull with betrayal and dashed hopes. You think it funny that for the past few months, the word _betrayal_ has been such a constant in your life and his (you think it even funnier that it's _always _the people you suspect the least that stabs you in the back without a second thought.) You walk to him gracefully, as though you are dressed in the swishing silks and heavy velvets of the Lady Morgana of Camelot. You do not fear for your life, for even though you spy the great Excalibur lying by the throne carelessly, you know he will not run you through. The two of you now stand before the other, and you see that while he is not devastated by the thoughtless actions of his supposedly virtuous wife, he _is _tired of being betrayed by the people he trusts the most. First you, and now the flower of his knights.

Your hard gaze softens as you reach to caress his face and he lets you, sinking into your calloused palm once as soft as silk, now as worn and rough as his. He grips your waist, tight enough to stay your flight yet gentle enough not to leave a bruise (you remember he was always gentle like that). He whispers to you, hot and loving (what a strange contrast, don't you think?) and you know you cannot hope to resist him (not that you ever could of course). "_Stay._" Just one word and yet it commands you to do as he asks (he never commands; never needed to with you). You smile wordlessly and the two of you leave for his chambers and you know that he is yours and you are his again (and let that be a lesson to those _fools_ who thought it was so easy to tear you apart). The seething maidservant dressed in all the glories of a fallen Queen who stands in the shadows watching you leave with your King doesn't matter. She never does (and never will).

* * *

_~It's such a shame for us to part~ The Scientist, Coldplay_

You don't leave his side for the entire night and morning (you'd be damned if his fool of a manservant tries to order you to leave) and you're gratified when his baby blue eyes flutter open to smile lazily at you. He reaches up for you and you let him (like you've let no other man) pull you to him and you sigh as your fingers curl on his bare chest. He just strokes your raven hair (you take pride that even after living in the wild, your luscious locks are softer than _hers,_ because _Arthur_ said so, and whatever he says is gospel), and you purr contently under his touch, eliciting a chuckle from him. You grin at him, for once meaning everything that's behind your smiles (only for him) and you kiss him and all of a sudden the both of you are moaning and entangled under the sheets once more. You keen wildly as he thrusts hard and fast into you, raking your blunt nails down his back (the scars he will have, the poor dear) and he's grunting your name in your ear. The both of you are biting and snarling and groaning and after a long blissful moment where time seemed to stand _dead_ still, it's over and he collapses on you, boneless from the pleasure only _you_ can give him.

You just gaze into the blue, blue (baby blue) depths of his eyes and you smile as you try to regain your breath. He smirks and pushes your hair back from your face, _"Don't go. Stay and be my Queen_." It is the first time of the day that there's even a hint of sadness or regret in your coldly beautiful (warm as fire when you're with him) face, but it's there now. He understands the falling of your gaze and kisses you fiercely, tasting you and him in the warm canvasses of your mouth and you sigh once more into him, wrapping your slender arms around his neck and in his golden hair. It's as though neither of you need to come up for air and for that single, blessed moment you're both immortal and nothing, _no one_ can touch you and everything's right and all right in the world where everything was once screwed and _fucked up _as hell.

And all too soon paradise is shattered (it can never last in life, baby) and he's rising and pulling you along with him as the two of you scramble for clothes strewn carelessly last night around the room. A gasp sounds from the doorway (you're amused how feminine that sounds like, coming from a man) and Arthur turns his glare sharply to the intrusive figure responsible for how your utopia fell. Merlin tries to force his way in and in turn is stunned when your golden haired _King_ (he was king long before his tyrant of a father died, you always knew that) roars at him to leave and even his withering glare of repressed hate and fear (you could smell it _rolling_ off him in waves even _before_ he arrived) can't stop you from smiling at your love (gods but it felt _wonderful_ to call him that) as the both of you kiss and try to appear civilized once more before you laugh and capture his lips between your. It is more than anything you could have asked for in the midst of war and killing and mindless _fucking_.

* * *

_~Romeo save me, they're trying to tell me how to feel. This love is difficult but it's so real~ Love Story, Taylor Swift._

Thousands of years from now a tragic love story (nothing compared to the tragedy of Arthur Pendragon and Morgana le Fay nonetheless) is created and people will grieve for the ruined love of star-crossed lovers. Maybe once upon a time you would've wept along at the injustice of love kept apart, hell you would've championed their cause. But as you sweep your broken Arthur (still as majestic as he was in life, _always_) into your tired arms, you find that you couldn't care less about the people who come after the both of you, claiming tragic love and unrequited feelings and all the rot. He's smiling wearily at you and his eyes are twin chips of sapphire ice blurred and sharp (if that even makes sense) as the two of you float on to the fabled (not so fabled really, when you think of it) land of Avalon, where, as a poet named Alfred, Lord Tennyson later writes, _where falls not hail, or rain or any snow, nor ever wind blows loudly_. And to think that a mortal who never stepped foot within the sacred grounds was right. You bear your love unto the grounds and as you chant words of power and magic and healing you're relieved (not that you were afraid the Goddess would claim the life of her champion) when you see his broken hurts knit together and soon he is standing as tall as he stood in life. He offers his hand to you and you accept it, dropping into a curtsey (you remember in the far back of your mind, a similar scene in the past that ended in bickering crackling with so much electricity) as the two of you glide into the gilded walls of your castle and as the doors slam shut behind the both of you, he captures your lips in a heated kiss and the world outside that tried so hard to bring you both to your knees can scream and shout and yell all it wants and you can tell them to _fuck off_ as your love lays you on the bed and soon endless pleasure ensues. And at night (is there truly a morning and night in Avalon? Or is time another illusion that you're both no longer bound to?) when you watch him fall asleep like a guileless child, you stroke his golden (you were sure, when you were a child of 8 and he 9, that the golden fire would burn like the sun) hair, you smile and kiss him gently before floating on to sleep in his arms. Destiny is certainly _far _too overrated and you're done with it. Arthur and you are your own gods and goddesses now and whatever you both say now, _is gospel._


End file.
